


salt&vinegar

by hellopurpletiger (Felix_Kawaii)



Series: Library of W.I.Ps (emphasis on the W not the P) [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Self-Insert, how do we make friends?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felix_Kawaii/pseuds/hellopurpletiger
Summary: Sometimes, it felt wrong to act so childishly. Sometimes it felt so wrong she thought she might throw up.-In which Ethel is the younger sister to Cedric the Spare. (SI-OC)





	1. Aboard the Hogwarts Express

**Author's Note:**

> work in progress, emphasis on the work not the progress...

Ethel stops just before the Floo. The fireplace is a little scuffed with ash and past Floo-exiting mishaps. The mantelpiece is filled with knickknacks; little trinkets from wandering the woods near the back of the house, old acorns and shiny river stones, a frame of pressed daisy chains she’d made for Mum’s birthday years back. There’s the family picture frame sitting in the middle of it all. Her dad has a proud grin on his face and mum’s face is lit up in a beatific smile, their arms linked. Her brother looks like he wants to do nothing more than go back to his pile of Christmas presents, sneaking glances at his pile by the tree and a suspiciously broom-like wrapped lump in it. Her toddler self is beaming gummily.

“Ethel? You go on first, I’m just looking for my shoes!” Mum yells from somewhere upstairs.

Most of the family have left, her dad first and then her brother. Her trunk has gone through already with them, so really, there’s nothing stopping her from stepping through. She runs her hand over her tight braids, smooths down the hem of her sunny blue dress one last time. Her hands are a little clammy but no one’s around to judge.

Once she steps through the fire, there will be no going back. She’ll be on Platform Nine-and-three-quarters, boarding the eleven o’clock train to Hogsmeade Station for her first term as a Hogwarts student. Mum looked teary-eyed at breakfast this morning, and Dad hadn’t stopped called her Princess all day, even though she hadn’t like that nickname since she was eight. Even her brother chuckled at their antics with a roll of his eye, but ruffled her hair fondly.

She grabs a pinch of green Floo powder, the fine dust clenched tightly in her hand.

Yes, of course, she’s nervous – terrified even. But there’s no choice. There never has been.

“Platform Nine-and-three-quarters!”

Ethel Diggory takes a breath, steps forward and shuts her eyes.

* * *

 

At first, she hadn’t known. It wasn’t like it was obvious.

As Amos Diggory tells it, their second child had been a surprise. Born in the height of the Second War, it wasn’t really the sort of auspicious start any parent wanted for their child. She was born on the kitchen floor of his mother-in-law’s cottage in the Welsh countryside, because they’d been visiting over Christmas and “out you came, like a belated Christmas present!”, as the tale goes.

She hadn’t exactly been lucid for her birth, that would have been disgusting, but she did remember the traumatic moments – an awful, suffocating, squeezing sensation, the choking on the gasp of her first breath, terrified because she’d forgotten how to  _ breathe – _

It wasn’t any sort of Christmas present she would have wanted.

There were snippets she could recall, of feeling trapped within a tiny body and unable to tell her body to move like she wanted to, of wanting to ask where she was - only for little gurgles to slip out of her mouth, her tongue heavy and clumsy. Of the constant panic and fear of those first six months where she couldn’t see much more than a blur of colour, and huge hands would move her dizzyingly without her control, and if she had forgotten how to breathe, what else was there that she had forgotten?

Later, she felt bad for putting her parents through that, struggling through the war with a two-year old and a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. It must have been exhausting. She had had no idea what was going on, only that she knew she shouldn’t feel like this, a clumsy drooling baby, but she didn’t know what she should be instead.

She did get used to it, after a while, and then she could see clearly, and breathe properly, and things felt a little less  _ wrong _ , and finally understand the gibberish people spouted at her well enough to recognise her name.

Ethel.

_ Ethel? _

It was the name of old ladies knitting in the corner! Crazy cat ladies with fur sticking to their clothes! Wrinkles and grey hair!! Not the name parents should bestow on their Innocent Newborn Daughter!

Her name was Ethel and they’d been saying it to her for so long that she couldn’t help but respond to it now – was that brainwashing?

(Actually, what was brainwashing?)

After a while, she had accepted the name, accepted the weirdness of her parents and her older brother wriggling his hand in her face until she was tempted to chomp on it. But it wasn’t until she was nearly three, that she found out where she was.

It had been summer and lazily warm. Cedric, her parents shouldn’t be allowed to name children, liked to spend it at a few friends houses’ or flying around the house on his junior broom because even though it wasn’t allowed, the house was way cooler than the garden. Meanwhile, Ethel would spend the day rolling around on the cool slate floor until she was panting from giggling too hard and then she’d wheedle Cedric until he entertained her.

Cedric was a fairly good kid. He loved to run around and fly and wrestle his friends into the mud tackling quaffles. He had Dad’s darker colouring, hair that tended towards a brown than Mum’s golden blonde, and Dad’s grey eyes, but his face tended more to Mum’s refined angles than Dad’s strong jawline and wider-set nose. He was a good big brother too, who let her be the dragon every time he got his figurines out and didn’t tattle on her when she made it eat one of Mum’s earrings.

He wasn’t perfect though. He liked to jump out from behind the cupboard door and scare Mum whilst she was baking, and he loved teasing her until her face was Howler red. Sometimes when his friends came over, he would shrug apologetically and then run around with them for hours until it felt like he’d forgotten he was Ethel’s friend too.

That day, she’d done her last bit of rolling, summer dust staining her skirt and had been looking for something to do. Cedric was puttering about in his room and the last time she’d gone to bother him for a game, it had been boring (“It’s called Sit-As-Quietly-As-You-Can, Ethel, it’s really fun I bet!”) so she was looking for something a little more interesting.

She had just decided to look for Mum or Dad to entertain her instead, when she spotted it.

Mum had left the backdoor open to let a breeze in, no doubt, and Cedric’s Junior Cleansweep was sitting innocently by the door. Instantly, she had her newest game.

Ethel grabbed the handle with a giggle and darted out into the sun. The air was still hot as ever, but now she had a plan. The broom was cool in her hand as she laid it down on the long grass, she was going to fly!

“Let’s go!” She told the broom.

It didn’t move.

“Fly!”

Not even a twitch.

She scowled, maybe brooms weren’t made for flying after all (but then what were they made for?). How did Cedric do it? He’d certainly never showed her.

There was something niggling in the back of her brain, like a wispy stray thought.

_ “Stick your right hand over your broom -- and say UP!” _

“UP!” She yelled.

The broomstick snapped into her hand, with a sharp sting. She giggled, “Ethel knows magic, Ethel knows magic!” She sing-songed.

Sometimes, it felt wrong, to act so childishly. Sometimes it felt so wrong she thought she’d throw up, like her body was all screwed up and her legs were too short and her voice too high. But, it sometimes made her happy. To skip and giggle and jabber to Mum about being a fairy queen.

She mounted the broom, uncaring of her skirt, with a grin.

Ethel kicked off the ground as hard as she could and up, up she went! Air rushed through her hair, her skirt floofed up like a cloud. Slowly, carefully, she leaned forwards a little and the wobbly broomstick began to  _ move. _

Oh, it was scary, it wobbled with every turn, but it was so  _ cool! _

“Ethel! Ethel!”

She looked up. Cedric was at his window, eyes wide. Yes, she imagined him saying, I have the coolest little sister.

“Get down! That’s my broom!” He hissed, looking around frantically.

“Nyeh!” She stuck her tongue out deliberately, lifting one hand off to wave. Only, she was a three year old, on a flying broomstick, four feet off the ground, she didn’t have any sort of coordination on the ground, let alone in the air, and it was right at that moment, that she saw Mum’s face in the kitchen window pale.

WHAM-Ethel hit the ground hard.

Someone shrieked. Footsteps came running. But all she could focus on was her pudgy little ankle, lying at an awkward angle. Pain sparked suddenly, until her spots of white filled her vision.

“Ethel, oh my baby!” Mum was suddenly clutching her tight, “Oh, her foot, her foot!”

“We need to get to St Mungo’s,” Someone was saying.

But all she could focus on was the odd white-purpleness of her foot and Dad’s words loud and clear, ringing in her ears: “Cedric Diggory! Why did you leave your broom out, you stupid boy!”

_ Cedric Diggory. _

A character from a series of movies, she had liked once upon a time, played by an actor who she couldn’t stand. The boy who fell to Peter Pettigrew’s hand at the Resurrection of Dark Lord Voldemort. The character who was simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Not the main character, not the comic relief, not the guide on a journey.

The spare.

He was her brother.

* * *

 

The Platform is a chaotic mess of children and parents. She nearly steps on a toad as she leaves the Floo but someone knocks into her as they shuffle past and the it disappears between her feet. There are more kids than she’s ever seen in her life, more than even the Weasley’s have. And it’s loud. A lady somewhere out of sight yells for a hurtling child to slow down, there’s a man whose trolley wheel looks like it’s stuck in a dip in the floor, his face getting steadily redder and redder.

Cedric and Dad are a little ways off from the Floo entrance to the Platform. She weaves her way past the other witches and wizards until they spot her and Cedric plucks her from the moving crowd, with a laugh.

“Took you ages!”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

Dad shakes his head at them and pulls them closer away from the swell of the crowd. “Where’s your mother?”

“Mum was looking for her shoe.” She supplies, after a moment.

Her brother sighs, “I’m supposed to be meeting everyone in fifteen minutes.”

“It’s not like they won’t save you a seat.”

“I suppose.”

Mum turns up a few minutes later, lilac robes immaculate despite having travelled through a fireplace, hair in a neat bun. She ushers them out from the Floo waiting area towards the exit for the actual Platform, fussing with Ced’s shirt and hair with Ethel sniggering at his put-upon look all the way.

The first thing she sees, is in fact not the train, but the steam. It billows thick high up in the air, until it disappears somewhere near the high ceilings of the station. There is a dark smudge amongst the smog for a moment, and then it lifts and a shape emerges. The train is a bright, jolly red, like rubies or fresh tomatoes in summer, carriages stretching beyond her peripheral. And there are people everywhere, constantly moving.

“The Hogwart’s Express.” Cedric say’s with a knowing, fond grin. “Pretty cool, huh?”

It’s all Ethel can do to nod. It’s  _ amazing. _

“Now,” She drags her eyes away as Mum begins to talk. “Don’t forget to owl us if you need anything, and I expect a letter soon, okay?” Mum fiddles with the cuff of her sleeve and then scoops her into a hug, tearily.

“Look out for you sister, won’t you, Cedric?”

“Course, I will, Dad.” Her brother says with an affectionate huff.

Mum releases her, and then it’s Dad’s turn to sweep her up. “Be good, Princess. You’ll be just fine.”

And then he lets go, gives her a little push towards the train and Cedric grabs her hand. “C’mon,” He says softly, pushing their trolley towards one of the train doors. Ethel glances back.

Mum and Dad are linking arms and waving, proud smiles on their faces.

Before she knows it, Ethel is on the train – the  _ Hogwart’s Express _ – in an empty carriage with her luggage stowed away under her seat and they are pulling out of the station in a cacophony of shrieking metal, piercing whistles and the accelerating beat of a steam engine.

“Some people meet their best friends on their first ride to school,” Cedric had said, “but not everyone does, so don’t worry too much about it.” And then he’d patted her on the head, like an adult even though he was only  _ nearly  _ fourteen. “Give it a try anyways, I’ll come find you later, okay?”

Honestly, does he want her to make friends or not?

The train threads through a long dark tunnel, only broken by the twinkle of tiny lights, floating by as the Express hurtles past.

She’s been counting down the days, the years, to this since the day she fell off Cedric’s old broomstick. She’s not sure why she exists, if she’s honest. Some cosmic mistake by the universe, a slip of an author’s pen on the page. She doesn’t remember dying, but she’s very sure she isn’t supposed to exist.

Ethel Diggory was never mentioned in the Harry Potter movies. She’s pretty sure Ethel Diggory is never mentioned in the whole franchise.

She had never made the connection between Cedric – her brother – and Cedric – the  _ spare ­–  _ because she’d never heard their surname before, and he didn’t look a thing like the boy in the movie. The floating lights around her crib, the swish of Mum’s wand to iron out wrinkles in her blouse, the sight of Cedric flying on a broom,  _ magic  _ had seemed a perfectly, accepted ordinary thing.

But she hadn’t even thought that she might have been born into JK Rowling’s fantasy universe until that moment.

For a few months, she had considered telling someone, but she doubted “I think I’m stuck inside a book” would make her sound anything less than insane – unless she was Tom Riddle, of course. On the off-chance that someone did believe her and not ship her off to a long-term bed in St Mungo’s, who’s to say they wouldn’t just obliviate her and keep the information to themselves, or change the future so that Voldemort would win? Or worse, affect it enough that everybody died.

Ethel isn’t smart enough either, to be some grand master manipulator like the Dark Lord or even Dumbledore. She can’t try and play such a grand game, trying to think so many moves ahead of her opponents, can’t even hope to.

Perhaps, if she’d been born earlier in the timeline of the Story, maybe attended Hogwarts with her parents, or Tom Riddle, she might have been able to change things.

The fact is, she soon realises, Ethel does not want to change the Story.

She doesn’t want to be responsible for the lives lost and feel the weight of every single life in Britain resting on her shoulders and her actions. Harry Potter was and is the hero of the Story, he fills that role quite nicely, and she has no desire to get in the way of that. She doesn’t have any sort of hero-complex or people-saving-thing to pander to, no urgent desire to save the children the trauma of what their years at the Castle will be.

She only wants one thing – to save Cedric.

From a pragmatic point of view, Cedric’s death isn’t even necessary to the Story. It does not lead to any sort of dramatic rebellion in his name, nor does his death help hinder Voldemort’s plans. It is a meaningless death, a waste of life and potential and utterly pointless. It makes Harry Potter look like he is complicit in the murder of a boy, and the truth of Voldemort’s resurrection like the spun-tale of a panicked celebrity looking for a scapegoat.

And he is her big brother. The boy who showed her how to make snow angels and raced her down the stairs to rip open her presents. The boy who hugged her after her nightmares, and didn’t mind her cold feet under his sheets. Her best friend.

Ethel isn’t going to let him ever be the Spare.

The train finally emerges from the long tunnel, light bursting through the windows across the carriage. In the tunnel’s place, are rolling green hills and stooping heather, bending like water rippling on a lake. Somehow, they’ve left London.

A hesitant knock on the compartment door jolts her out of her daydream, the faint shadow of a person behind the frosted glass.

“Er…” Ethel clears her throat. “Come in?”

The door slides open. There’s a blonde boy, face a little red, biting his lip stood at the threshold. a heavy looking black trunk in one hand and a wooden box under his armpit, the other hand gripping the door still.

“Um,” His eyes flicker to the empty seats, “Can I s…s-sit with you?” His ears flushing to their tips.

“Go for it,” Ethel attempts a smile – how do people make friends?

The boy drags his trunk in, the metal tipped corners scraping along the ground heavily, an awkward creaking sound echoing from the floor below it as he moves to push it under his seat.

“…Do you want some help?” She offers after watching him struggle for a moment.

He shakes his head rapidly, “’m fine.” He mumbles, gives the trunk one last shove, before deciding that is as far as it can go and then sits down opposite her, clutching the small wooden box from before.

Ethel looks down at the book in her hand, about magical creatures, and then back up at the boy opposite her fiddling with the lid of his box, sneaking shy glances at her.

Cedric had told her to try, after all.

She takes a deep breath, and then sticks her hand out. The boy jumps and stares at the hand a little cross-eyed, like it might bite.

“I’m Ethel Diggory.” She squeaks. Her hand suddenly feels horribly clammy.

He blinks at her.

Oh dear, maybe that isn’t how you made friends after all, it’s not like she has much experience. Oh no. Oh no. She feels the blush begin to rise up her neck.

Then, his hand twitches up to meet hers. “I’m –“

Instead of fingers, Ethel instead finds herself holding a black frog, slimy and cold. It’s bulbous yellow eyes stare up at her and then it blinks slowly, one eyelid after another. She tries not to gag, urgh, at the sound it’s eyelids make. It is really, really weird and oddly bumpy.

Must. Not. Throw.

 

She wants to fling it out the window and far, far away.

“Trevor!” The boy yelps and then snatches the thing off her. She gapes the viscous trail of slime it leaves in the air as it’s eased back into the box. “I mean! I’m not Trevor, I’m c…c… My name’s Neville Longbottom!”

Oh. Her first instinct is to blurt out ‘ _ No, you’re not.’  _ She doesn’t of course but she thinks it very loudly. Didn’t Neville have brown hair? Then again, in the Story Cedric had a sandy-blonde shade instead of the rich brown her brother had. Besides, why would someone lie about being Neville Longbottom, of all people? So it must be him then.

Isn’t that just great! Absolutely smashing!

Not even at Hogwarts and the Story has already made its appearance. Discretely, she tries to wipe off the sheen of slime onto the seat cover beside her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Neville looks like he might cry still. “I’m really sorry!” He just about whispers, face likely redder than the train they’re on.

“It’s okay.” She tries to shrug, yeah it’s a little icky, but she doesn’t hate him over it. She might hold a grudge against Trevor, but Neville looks like he might cry if she held one against him. Suddenly, she remembers that in the books, he had lost Trevor on the Platform too. Trevor, the Truant Toad. She’s laughing out loud before she can help herself. “Does he try to escape often?”

“Lots!” Neville blurts, but his lips twitch into an unsure smile.

She grins back.

“He was a b… he was a b-birthday p…p-present,” He tries to explain, “From my Uncle Algie.” He keeps his hand stiffly clamped around the lid this time.

“Lucky! I wish someone bought me a pet for my birthday!” Although preferably not a toad or frog, she thinks delicately.

“I don’t know if he really likes me though,” Neville sighs, despondently. “He’s tried to escape so many times.”

“Oh.” Well, that was a bit sad. “Maybe…” Ethel hmm’s thoughtfully, eying the small box. “Maybe he doesn’t like his box?”

They both stare at the box in his hands, large enough for a growing frog, but not much bigger than that.

“Oh, no!” Neville moans, slumping in his seat. “It’s so small! And dark! It’s like a p-prison!”

“There, there,” Ethel pats him on the shoulder, oh no, please don’t cry. Please don’t cry! “My brother’s on the train, he’s a third year so I’m sure he knows some spells to make it nicer!” She tried, a little desperately.

“Sorry, Trevor,” Neville whispers to the box. “I didn’t know.”

Cedric better pop his head in soon, or she’s going to have to explain Mum and Dad in her letter home how she made a boy cry on her first train ride to school.

The toad is suspiciously silent.

Isn’t Hermione supposed to help Neville on the way to Hogwarts? Where is her bushy head now? Ethel sneaks a glance at the compartment door, but there’s nobody outside to interrupt.

“We’ll help you now.” He says to the box solemnly. “Just wait a little b…b-bit longer.”

She feels a little bit like a fraud, or at least more than she already does for finding her way into the Story, when Neville Longbottom looks up gratefully like she’s just saved his life.

The rest of the train ride is quiet apart from an appearance of the trolley cart, heaving with confectionary on tiny little wheels. Ethel buys a sugar quill and some sour bonbons, Neville hesitantly copies her and gets a few shooting stars, which wizz out of their packet and zoom around his head, glowing softly before dropping back into the palm of his hand. Ethel eats her sweets first, leaving a few bonbons in the bag for later on, and then promptly decides that since she’s hungry she should eat lunch. Neville agrees too and they take it in turns to hold Trevor’s Box while the other eats – she holds it as far from her body as possible – as they watch fields full of cows and sheep flick past.

Later Cedric does poke his head in and looks mightily surprised that she’s not alone anymore (rude!). He doesn’t know the spell, it turns out, “Not a permanent one,” but he does know that Professor Flitwick cast something on Bonnie Goldstein’s Puffskein last year to keep it from running for the kitchens every time she left the room.

“Alright, sis?” He asks, as his eyes flick between Neville and Ethel. And then he turns to the boy with a quirk of his lips. “Not giving you too much trouble, is she?”

Neville just about squeaks a “No!” and then looks like he resolutely wishes the ground could swallow him whole.

“I’m never any trouble!” Ethel says back quickly, because as much as she loves Cedric, he’s so embarrassing sometimes!

“Hmm…” He slows, pretending to think. “What about that time…”

“There was no time!” She yelps and then promptly shoves him out the door, face burning so much she’s probably glowing.

Neville is watching her with wide eyes.

“Um…” She stares at the floor instead. “…he’s really embarrassing.” She says weakly, sidling back to her seat.

Cedric should never meet any friends she makes, she decides right there. She doesn’t know if sharing a compartment with Neville makes them friends, but if this is how he acts with someone she’s only just met then maybe he should just watch from a distance. She nods to herself and pretends Neville isn’t sneaking glances at her, like a wary dog.

Instead she cracks open her book and starts the chapter on Inchnadamphs, it’s picture looks like a particularly fluffy looking sea urchin, hidden in the corner of a bookshelf.

Outsides the scenery gradually changes from the fields and winding lanes to wilder woods, and twisting rivers speeding by is silver flashes between dark green hills and over deep valleys. The sun hadn’t quite set, the next time Ethel looks up, but it is dipping lower and lower in the sky, casting a brilliant orange across their compartment.

“Sorry for earlier,” She winces when Neville’s head snaps up. He must think she was ignoring him – which she has been, it’s only that it was really embarrassing to turn round and realised she’d acted like a crazy person in front of perfectly nice, docile, Neville Longbottom. “You must think I’m really weird.”

Neville blushes. Oh dear, he did think that, probably still does. “S’okay.” He says, ducking his head.

It isn’t that bad, she supposes, Story-wise that they share a compartment. He’s quiet and nice and really, he isn’t too involved in the plot until much later anyways. Right now, he’s only marginally more of a character than she is, regulated to unfortunate comic-relief. Someone completely off-screen, so to speak, would be better but Neville is a good choice. And besides, if Ethel gets too far away from the plot, will she be able to help Cedric? Probably not.

“Anyways,” She says, standing, “It’s getting late so we’ll probably be at Hogwarts soon. I’ll go to the bathroom to change?” Her trunk is hefted from under the seat and she grabs the first set of uniform she sees before slamming the lid closed.

“I’ll change here?” Neville offers, “If that’s okay?”

“Sure.”

 

She steps out into the corridor and the door shuts behind her, lock closing with a soft  _ snick. _ There are a few people standing outside other compartments, probably waiting for their friends to change. Ethel wanders down the carriages with the vague idea of dodging any more high-profile people, but there are loads of kids on the train, and it isn’t like they look like the movies anyhow, so it’s probably going to be impossible to avoid them until they quite literally introduce themselves.

She passes a few boys about her age huddling over some chocolate frog cards.

“But how does that even work?!” One is saying, throwing his hands in the air in frustration.

“Dunno,” The other one shrugs, the chaser on his t-shirt scoring a goal and cheering for himself silently. “We’re only first years.”

A few carriages further down, she spots one of her brother’s friends – Bonnie, apparently also the one with the crazy Puffskein – leaning against the window, her black hair ruffling in the wind behind her.

“…hiya.” Ethel tries, because she’s been walking up and down the train for a while now and she still hasn’t seen a toilet to change in.

“Oh,” Bonnie jumps, hand jolting to rest on her chest. “You gave me a fright!”

“Sorry,” She blushes, it wasn’t like she meant to.

Bonnie is the only friend Cedric has that’s a girl, although her hair is cropped close to her head like a boy’s hair cut and she wears ribbons around her wrists like bracelets. “Are you looking for your brother, Ethel?”

She shakes her head sheepishly. “The bathroom,” and lifts up her change of clothes in explanation.

“Oh dear,” Bonnie chuckles, “You must have passed it a while back.” She glances at the door to a compartment, before shaking her head. “C’mon, I’ll show you where it is, the boys are going to take ruddy forever.”

She’s right, it turns out. Ethel passed the bathrooms two carriages back and just hadn’t spotted it. Thanking her, she heads in as Bonnie turns back. The stall is surprisingly spacious, despite the fact that the door outside looks like a cupboard in the wall – extension charms maybe? There’s enough room for two people to spin around with their arms out to the side, so plenty enough to change in.

The Hogwarts uniform is mostly grey. A grey pleated skirt to her knees, and a grey knitted jumper over a white shirt and a black tie – which is the trickiest to put on. Mum has made her practice every day to make sure she could do it herself, and Ethel grins at her reflection in the mirror when it pulls tight to make a decent knot. Third time, lucky, of course. Lastly, there is a pair of grey socks and shiny black shoes. And to top it off, her black Hogwarts robe, the crest sewn in over where her heart is.

She straightens out a few stray hairs from her braid and then gives the mirror her best smile. It looks a little shaky at best, downright anxious at worst.

“Lovely, darling! Very smart, and studious looking!”

“Thank you.” She pipes back, heart stuttering in her chest, twin pricks of red appearing on her reflection’s cheeks. It isn’t like being caught doing something stupid by a real person, but still she’d been admiring herself in the mirror and been caught by said Mirror, so it’s still a little embarrassing.

She slips out into the hallway. It’s a lot noisier than earlier, people hurrying by and chatting loudly, so they were probably getting close to Hogsmeade. Everyone looked to be heading back to their trunks to change, or milling in the corridors waiting for other people to change. Ethel only just steps back it to their compartment again when a voice echoes through the train.

“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to school separately.”

Neville pales immediately and Ethel feels as faint as he looks. Oh, Merlin, this is it.

“Should I take Trevor w…w-with me?” They both look at the box in his hands.

Ethel vaguely remembers something about a toad and the lake and promptly decides that in order to keep herself from Neville’s tears, it’s probably best if the toad stays within his sights. “You could hide the box in your sleeve?” The robe sleeves are stupidly wide and definitely long enough to hide at least five toad boxes inside.

He nods nervously and pulls his wide sleeve over his hand and then they join the crowd in the corridor.

The train slows right down, brakes shrieking and hissing all the way, to a halt. People pushing their way towards the doors, bony elbows and jabbing figures. Ethel grabs onto Neville’s other sleeve, the Trevor-less one, there are so many bodies fitted in the train, pressing and shoving, like sardines in a can. Eventually they stumble out onto a tiny platform, into the evening air. It’s certainly cooler than this morning, and the sun is just setting, the orange of the sky bleeding into a deep blue.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!” A loud voice booms over the crowd. They stumble towards it, dodging older kids, rushing past. “C’mon, follow me!” A giant of a man, so huge he towers over the crowd of slowly gathering first years. She has to crane her neck to see him – Hagrid, her brain supplies. His face is round and jolly, and his hair and beard dark and thick. He gives them all a cheerful grin. “Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

Hagrid leads them down a steep, narrow slope, slipping and stumbling. It’s lucky that Scotland is still light this time in the evening, imagine navigating the path in the dark! There are thick trees to either side of them blotting the sky to a thin strip up above, and loose rocks and all manner of things to trip on. She thinks she catches a glimpse of red hair up near the front at one point. Nobody speaks much, concentrating on putting the next foot down and avoiding loose tree roots.

The giant is saying something else, up at the front but as they turn the corner of the path, Ethel’s eyes snap away from the precarious path upwards with a gasp.

In front, the narrow path has opened up suddenly to the shore of a great black lake, reflecting the bruising sky. And there, in the distance, perched high on the rock, is a vast castle it’s many turrets and towers standing proud at the high mountain summit, coloured flags dancing in the wind.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid hollers and points towards a fleet of little boats sitting at the waters edge, lapping against the shore. Neville starts towards a boat quickly, biting his lip and Ethel follows behind him. He stops in front of a boat and shuffles a little to the side. Immediately, she sees his problem.

“It’s okay, Neville,” She gives him a gentle nudge towards a boat with a ginger-haired boy, a girl with a dark explosion of frizzy curls and the smallest first year she’s seen yet, the frames of his glasses wrapped in sticky tape. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

He swallows and nods and then darts off to the other boat.

Ethel turns back to the boat in front of her with a sigh. They don’t look exactly like their movie counterparts, but it’s easy enough to guess who they are. An eye-searing bright head of perfectly coifed blonde hair and two slightly round, slack looking faces stare back at her. Even if she didn’t know the Story, she would have avoided them by atmosphere alone. Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.

She steps onto the boat and sits down.

Malfoy eyes her for a moment and then turns his head away with a sniff.

“Right then – “ Hagrid shouts, “FORWARD!”

And the fleet of boats glide forwards at once, over the water, it’s surface smooth as glass. Everyone is quiet, looking up towards the great castle up ahead. It looms above them as they get closer and closer, nearer to the sheer cliff Hogwarts overlooks.

“Heads down!”

The boats slip under a curtain of ivy, tendrils brushing the tops of their heads, hiding a wide opening in the rock and a dark passage way under the mountain. Inside the tunnel, little floating lights like the train tunnel out of the Platform float overhead, like fireflies or distant stars. It’s colder down here too, without the last warmth of the sun to heat the cold rock.

Eventually, the water stops flowing and they reach what seemed to be some sort of underground dock, with lengths of rope wound around a metal hooked entrenched into the pebble beach of the shore. Ethel darts off to Neville’s side immediately, who looks just as relieved to see her as she is to see him.

“Hi,” She says as she slips into pace with him. “You alright?”

He nods, looking a little dazed.

“I think I just met Harry P…P… Harry P-Potter.” His voice doesn’t go much higher than an awed whisper.

“Oh.” She wonders which Harry Potter would prefer people to see him as – the character from a Story, or a legend made in flesh and blood.

They clamber up a path carved through the rock, this time lit by flaming torches, following Hagrid until they emerge in the damp grass right in the shadow of the Hogwarts castle itself. Stone steps lead up to the largest door Ethel has ever seen and a heavy brass knocker stares back at them, shaped as a dragon’s head.

“Everyone alright?” Hagrid casts an eye over the group, lingering on a few panting faces and red cheeks.

And then he turns and knocks three times on the door.


	2. Hogwarts, At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hat opens its mouth and begins to sing...

The great door swings open almost at once.

Ethel squints at the light coming from within. Stood in the entranceway is a woman, dressed in flowing green robes, her hair hidden under black pointed hat, it’s tip crooked. She eyes them all with a thinly arched brow, mouth set in a stern line.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid nods.

Her gaze lingers on a few faces in the crowd, and then she turns back to him. “Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” There’s a heavy clank from behind her and then the door opens wide.

The entrance hall is huge, it’s ceiling too high to make out, the torches flickering at the walls and casting shifting shadows across the tan sandstone and the slate-grey floor. There are a few portraits on the wall by a dark marble staircase: a verdant landscape with little houses dotting a valley by a river, a dragon swooping dizzyingly against a midnight sky and a frame with an empty table and chair.  

Professor McGonagall leads them right past it all, only glancing back once or twice to check that everyone is still following. The Great Hall must be behind a door they walk by, because as they cross the floor a buzz of voices fills the air, the rest of the school waiting impatiently for the feast to start.

Cedric is probably hoping she’ll get Hufflepuff.

But they don’t join the rest of the school just yet, and the stern witch leads them to an empty chamber, sparse but for a few wooden chairs leant against the wall. Ethel glances around nervously – already they’ve deviated from what she remembers. Hadn’t they just waltzed straight into the Great Hall? Her year-mates cluster together, like penguins in a huddle. Neville is next to her, biting his lip, again.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you’re waiting.” Professor McGonagall announces, eyes lingering on a few messy looking ties and crumb-defaced cloaks.

Ethel reaches a hand to tentatively check her braids again. Beside her, Neville tugs on his sleeves self-consciously.

“I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly.” She says curtly and then sweeps out of the hall.

Neville is muttering to himself, eyes wide and pale again. Ethel swallows. “It’ll… be fine.” It comes out as a croak.

He whirls round suddenly. “Trevor’s still in my sleeve!”

She pats his shoulder, nervously. “There, there – just, I don’t know, cover it with your sleeve?” He doesn’t look at all comforted by it.

They stand shoulder to shoulder, shifting nervously while they wait. A blonde girl in front whispers that someone thinks there might be a test and then everyone around them is trembling too.

“A test?” Neville sounds faint. “In front o…o-of the whole school?”

Ethel knows there is no test. It’s just a silly old Hat and a jaunty song, they don’t need to know any magic for this bit. Sure, it’ll be nerve-wracking to stand in-front of everyone and feel their eyes on her face, and she hopes she’ll get into a house that she’ll enjoy being in for the next couple of years. Ethel knows there’s no test – but it doesn’t stop her heart from thumping in her chest. The veins in her throat feel like they’re pulsing to her panic. Her hands are sweaty. Her toes curl with the effort not to turn away.

There is no test.

But there _ is _ a mind-reading, morally judging Hat with an incredibly loud voice.

There is a greasy-haired potion’s master with eyes that can see every thought before she thinks it. And there is a benevolent Headmaster, with more power in his pinky than she has in her whole body and twinkling, probing blue eyes.

Not for the first time, she laments being born into a less ancient family. Dad is a first generation Pureblood and Mum descends from a line of hedge-witches who only managed to get into Hogwarts two generations prior. Neither of them even have the faintest clue about how to fend off a mind-reading Hat, and they don’t a have an ancient library in some massive manor for her to rifle through either.

Ethel is  _ screwed.  _ She barely notices the ghosts greeting the clump of waiting children, not even when Neville’s hand automatically jumps to her trailing sleeves.

The door opens again, on the opposite wall of the one they came through. The hum of too many voices and metal on metal and squawking laughter seeps into the chamber from beyond and Professor McGonagall purses her lips.

“Now, form a line and follow me.”

They stumble out of the room, with wobbly knees. Ethel is stood behind a dark-skinned boy, with hair cropped close to his skull, and Neville at her back.

The movies didn’t quite get it right, she notes with surprise, ash on her tongue.

The line quietens as the Great Hall of Hogwarts comes into full view. It’s beautiful. Millions of candles floating above their heads, bobbing along in languid formations, making intricate shapes. Below them, four long tables stretching nearly the whole length of the hall, where hundreds of students seem to be sitting, faces turning towards them curiously. Each of the tables are flooded with glittering gold goblets and plates, tureens and deep bowls. At the top of the room, is another long table, perpendicular to the students’ tables, and filled with teachers.

“Look!” Someone hisses, barely above a whisper.

Ethel’s eyes flick upwards.

Where there perhaps should have been towering arches and beams spanning the ceiling, there is instead, the sky. Maybe there is no ceiling, she’s heard about the enchantment of course, but it’s one thing to hear her big brother talk about it over the dinner table and another to see it for herself. Above, the stars are just beginning to show themselves in the fading light, a faint flicker here and there, as the dark creeps across the horizon.

With each step forward, the noise in the hall dims until they come to a stop in silence, like the whole hall is holding its breath. The line comes to a halt in front of the teachers’ table and Professor McGonagall gestures for them to turn around to face the rest of the school.

Cedric is sitting in the middle of the Hufflepuff table, right under the yellow banner, when she manages to finally spot him amongst the faces. Beside him is his usual gaggle of friends and when he catches her staring he gives her a little grin.

She looks down quickly just as Professor McGonagall places a stool in the centre of the hall, and on top of it, the rattiest, most frayed looking hat – The Sorting Hat. It has little patches in its rim and top, looking like it can’t decide whether it should be brown, grey or black. A long time ago, it might have been made with felt, but now the material looks almost completely worn away, only the lumpy looking fabric left behind.

For a few moments, it’s utterly quiet.

And then the Hat starts to sing.

_"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_ _But don't judge on what you see,_

 _I'll eat myself if you can find_ _a smarter hat than me._

 _You can keep your bowlers black,_ _Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_ For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat _ _ a _ _ nd I can cap them all. _

 

_ There's nothing hidden in your head _ _ t _ _ he Sorting Hat can't see, _

_ So try me on and I will tell you _ _ w _ _ here you ought to be. _

_ You might belong in Gryffindor, _ _ w _ _ here dwell the brave at heart, _

_ Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart; _

_ You might belong in Hufflepuff, _ _ w _ _ here they are just and loyal, _

_ Those patient Hufflepuffs are true and unafraid of toil; _

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_ _if you've a ready mind,_

_ Where those of wit and learning will always find their kind; _

_ Or perhaps in Slytherin _ _ y _ _ ou'll make your real friends, _

_ Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends. _

 

 _So put me on! Don't be afraid!_ _And don't get in a flap!_

_ You're in safe hands (though I have none) _

_ For I'm a Thinking Cap!" _

Ethel shivers - there’s nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can’t see? Oh, Merlin. At this point, she’ll take whatever house she gets, as long as she doesn’t have to put  _ that _ on her head.

There’s a brief applause after the song and then Professor McGonagall steps forward clutching a large scroll of parchment between her hands.

“When I call your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool to be sorted – Abbot, Hannah!”

The whispering girl from earlier scuttles forwards, blushing fiercely. Ethel’s nails dig into her palm. She isn’t a Weasley or a Patil; she’s a Diggory and she’s at the beginning of the stupid list!

“HUFFLEPUFF!” Cedric’s table cheers and claps as Hannah shuffles towards them looking a little dazed.

“Bones, Susan!” is next, and then “Boot, Terry!” -- the first Ravenclaw. “Brown, Lavender!” – the first Gryffindor. “Bulstrode, Millicent!” – the first Slytherin. The number of names before her quickly gets shorter and shorter.

“Corner, Michael!” is a bit of a hat-stall but she wishes he was  _ more _ of a hat-stall, maybe a  _ hat-stop _ or something equally ridiculous. The Sorting Hat’s mouth opens wide and then “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Ethel’s stomach is churning by the time it announces “Davis, Tracey!” as a Slytherin.

Oh, Merlin. She feels like she’s going to throw up.

“Diggory, Ethel!” A few mutters break out at Cedric’s table as she steps forward, trying her best not to trip in front of the entire school. Oh Merlin.

The last thing she sees is Cedric giving her an encouraging smile and then the brim of the ugly hat slips over her eyes.

“How rude.”

She jumps. Oh, it’s started already?

“What did you expect?” A voice says dryly from somewhere in her ear. “I already did my introduction.” It pauses, for a moment. “Oh, what’s this?”

She grips the sleeves of her robes, knuckles tight.  _ Shut up, _ she thinks as viciously as she can _ , shut up! _

“No need to screech.” The Hat hisses. If it were a person, she imagines they would be glaring. “Yes, I would. And I’d be much handsomer than that!”

That’s not a word – the thought is thought before she can stop herself.

“Quiet! Let me Sort you!”

She tries her best. She likes this as much as the Hat seems to, probably. Oh, right, quiet. She tries to clear her mind, like she is trying Occlumency from the Story, only it is really quite impossible to think absolutely no intrusive thoughts when her heart is hammering in her chest like that.

“Right.” The voice says, wryly, at last. “You’ve got no loyalty to anyone but yourself, and maybe your brother. Not stupid, but not clever enough either. Courage, you have a little, but rarely when it counts. And you’re not determined enough to have lofty ambitions, or see your goals through.”

It’s not the dry voice of an adult humouring a child any longer. It’s cutting and deep and to her horror she feels the tell-tale sign of a sting behind her eyes, tears welling helplessly.

“So determined when you decided to avoid the Story, and then faltering every time. Flimsy excuses to hide your indecisiveness.”

And she can’t even think of a protest because it’s  _ true _ . Distantly, a part of her wonders if anyone has ever cried during their sorting before.

She had decided to avoid changing everything and then one morning, watching Cedric eat his breakfast across the table from her, suddenly thought -- she could change  _ just one _ little thing. And then she’d been resolute in not meeting any more characters from the story and then she’d been sitting in the park by herself and a little blonde girl clutching a freckled red-head had approached and asked if she’d like to play a little. And she was nine and still no friends, so she’d thought,  _ just once _ , to see what it’s like.

And then Neville on the train, not a main character yet, she’d consoled herself. He hadn’t had friends in the Story really, not until near the end, so surely things wouldn’t change too much if she shared her compartment – such a small thing, really. 

So Trevor never escapes, Neville doesn’t meet Hermione Granger on the train and Hermione Granger might not have gone into Harry Potter and Ron Weasley’s compartment.

What else has her carelessness changed?

“Irresponsible.” The voice whispers. “I’ll sort you, but you’re nothing like any of the Houses, not yet. If you’re not smart enough, get smarter. If your goals are too lofty, work harder. If your loyalty is lacking, find something to feed it. If you’re not brave enough, find courage.”

In other words, get better. The thoughts burn in her head.

“Indeed.” The Hat says. “…You’ll  _ need _ GRYFFINDOR!”

The last word reverberates in her head and out into the Great Hall. Swiftly, she scrubs at her eyes and yanks the Sorting Hat off, it’s mouth grimacing at her like she’s something distasteful. Dirt on the bottom of this old hat’s shoe. There’s no sneering voice in her ear this time. Lightheaded, she heads towards the red banner, as the next name is called behind her.

Ethel slumps into the first empty spot on the bench she can see. She just wants to curl up in bed and forget today ever happened.

“…Are you alright?” Lavender Brown, the girl who was sorted earlier asks. There’s a pink ribbon in her dark hair that clashes with her red and gold tie.

She breathes in, breathes out, centres herself and nods. “Nervous.” Ethel says instead, by way of explanation. Lavender is as sociable as she is in the Story, because she barely bats an eyelid at her awkward answer and merely pats the other girl on the arm, a commiserating smile on her face.

“It was awful to have something in your head, wasn’t it?” she agrees.

Someone close by hushes them quickly, and the next few students are called up, one after the other.

“Finnegan, Seamus!” Professor McGonagall calls out from the front of the hall. A tall, freckled face boy nearly trips in his effort to leave the line, before patting his pockets and darting for the Hat. Nearly a whole minute goes by in silence, (“another Hat-stall” an older Gryffindor groans aloud), before the wide rip above the Hat’s brim spits out “GRYFFINDOR!”

The table erupts into raucous applause. Lavender scoots to the side a little to make room for him on her other side. He gives them a relieved grin, his upturned nose wrinkling in delight.

“Thought the stupid thing was never going to decide.” He laughs and plops down next to them.

Lavender nods, “You both were under the hat for ages compared to me.”

Seamus’ eyes drift towards Ethel curiously, looking like he’s only just spotted her on the other side of Lavender. She gives him a cautious smile which he returns with a crooked grin of his own.

A few others join their end of the table after: Hermione Granger’s head only under the Hat for a few seconds before she hops off the stool towards them. Neville, on the other hand, blushes bright red, even under the hat, the hem of his sleeve slipping to the side so that, even from her seat, Ethel can see Trevor’s box peaking out beneath it. He’s a Hat-stall too, so instead of getting it over and done with quickly, he spends a long time beneath the wide black brim of the Sorting Hat, steadily getting redder and redder. It does choose Gryffindor eventually but by that point Neville is so red he nearly throws the Hat off his head in surprise before stumbling his way forward.

Just for that Ethel gives him a tentative smile. She’ll think about what the Hat said to her later. Neville beams back tearily.

Parvati Patil gets split up from her twin, joining them in Gryffindor while Padma darts off for Ravenclaw. Sally-Anne Perks is someone Ethel doesn’t recognise from the Story at all, her sunshine blonde hair falling all the way past the dip in her waist, but, sure enough, she ends up next to Parvati at the table.

And then “Potter, Harry!” rings out into the Great Hall. The tiniest of all the first years steps forward, wide green eyes behind crooked glasses and a dark fringe. His face is stark white, but his fingers don’t tremble as he lifts the Hat onto his head.

“Potter, did she say?” Someone hisses from behind. “ _ The _ Harry Potter?”

And then they wait.  _ The  _ Harry Potter is a Hat-stall too, but there’s only a few other kids left and it’s “ _ Harry Potter, he’s probably perfect for every house!”  _ One of the older years whisper.

Ethel agrees, she knows he’s got the loyalty and the drive for Hufflepuff; the courage and the fearlessness of Gryffindor; he might not be too booksmart, but he’s clever and magically talented enough to go with the house of Eagles too. Slytherin is probably an easy enough fit from him, personality-wise, he’s savvy enough to join their politicking (or at least he will be) and if he wants to defeat Voldemort then he needs ambition in spades too.

But in the Story, he chooses Gryffindor.

Ethel knows she might have changed things. She doesn’t want to think that the Hat is right – but she is here now, at Hogwarts. Perhaps if someone else was in her position they would study and prepare and do something with the knowledge that the Story was coming. She’s done none of this. She hasn’t read ahead, beyond skimming the first few chapters of her first year texts. She isn’t some magic prodigy either. She’s just…lived – lived with the knowledge of  _ The Spare _ weighing on her mind but not done much beyond that. Maybe the Hat is right – and that she needs to make active choices instead of just reacting. She’s changed things already, even if she can’t know the consequences.

Still, she finds herself whispering “Gryffindor, Gryffindor,” alongside everybody else under the red banner.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The table erupts into the loudest cheer yet, stamping feet hard enough that the golden plates shake on the tabletop, cutlery clanging. A red-haired boy, shiny Prefect badge pinned to his chest jumps up to meet the Boy-Who-Lived, shaking his arm up and down eagerly. Ethel is too relieved to stifle her laugh at his bewildered expression.

“Such an honour! Such an honour!” Percy Weasley (because who else can it be?) slaps him on the back heartily and points him towards a space at the table with the rest of the first years.

Two identical older boys are crowing cheerfully at other tables, “We got Potter! We got Potter!”

Harry Potter sits down across the way from Seamus and flushes when he realises everyone is still staring at him. “…Hi?” He croaks out, looking as awkward as a turtle and very much like he’s been caught away from home without his shell.

“Hello?” Everyone murmurs back, Sally-Anne’s voice trailing at the end.

He looks away from them all, cheeks flushing shyly, back towards the Sorting.

Everyone else turns for the announcement of “Rivers, Oliver!” but Ethel’s eyes stay on the back of Harry Potter’s head.

The Story was written in the Hero’s point of view, so it only spelled out what the Hero knew, when the Hero realised it – but… it had never mentioned how utterly adorable he was. Harry has the craziest looking hair she had ever seen on a Caucasian person, an inky black mess of a bird’s nest attached to the back of his head, huge emerald eyes and a little button nose. He is also short, incredibly so, smaller than everyone by at least a head.

Ethel resists the urge to coo.

The Story never mentioned this! But then again, the Story had never shown the right shade of her brother’s hair, or that Hermione’s skin is a very pretty mocha tone or the cute overbite, and there are so many Weasleys! Well, maybe the Story had shown how many there were, but it’s something else to see in person.

Already, she can see Ron, looking green at the front, waiting for his Sorting, and Percy is only a few seats down from Harry and sneaking glances. The Weasley twins are further up the table, but after their antics earlier it’s no trouble spotting them, heads bent together mischievously. Four children from one family! And to think there are three more!

They live in the same town but, oddly, Ethel’s never actually met the Weasleys, apart from Ginny that one time, before. They’re actually on the other side of town, facing inland, whilst the Diggory’s face the River Otter. Although, she did occasionally see a few red-headed folk in the town growing up but she hadn’t want to assume every ginger she saw was a Weasley!

After “Zabini, Blaise!” takes his seat with the snakes, and the dreaded Hat has been put away, Dumbledore stands up at the podium, on a raised dais. His robes are as horrendous as the rumours say and standing behind something doesn’t detract from their eye-watering quality before. Like something out of a toddler’s paint set -- it’s a mix of tangerine orange and aubergine purple, and not in neat blocks or tartan either, something closer to the worst tie-die Ethel’s ever seen.

Across from her, Parvati’s jaw drops open.

“Welcome!” He beams. “"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

The first years exchange uncertain glances as the hall breaks into applause again.

“Is he a bit mad?” Ethel hears Harry Potter ask, and resists the urge to snort. Or cry.

As if on cue, the golden plates on the table suddenly fill with food. Great heapings of potatoes and glistening hams, chicken drumsticks and roast vegetables. Yorkshire puddings and chunky chips, sausages wrapped in lashings of bacon and steaming green peas. The Welcoming Feast is aptly named, and the table creaks dangerously under the weight of rich foods.

They dig in. Ethel helps herself to a good dollop of mashed potatoes, a few slices of meat and after a moment’s thought, also a scoop of peas, because peas are okay vegetables but slightly tricky to eat with a fork.

The ghosts float in, through the walls, now that the Sorting is over and a silvery figure settles into a gap by the Boy-Who-Lived, rapt eyes watching him cut into a perfectly cooked lamb chop.

“That does look good.” It sighs sadly, looking very much like it wishes for a ghostly lamb chop itself.

The black haired boy glances down at his plate before lifting a spear of asparagus in sympathy. “Can’t you -?”

The ghost sniffs, haughty all of a sudden. “Haven’t eaten in nearly four hundred years, I don’t need to, of course,” And here, it sighs again. “but one does miss it. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower.”

Ethel lifts her eyes up from her plate to look at the ghost properly. There’s a thick ruff around his neck and his silvery-blue robes are creaseless, swishing in some non-existent wind. Atop the finery is the translucent wizened face of a man with a moustache like two clock hands pointing at ten and two, and slightly wavy, silvery locks.

“I know who you are!” Ron interjects, across the table from him Hermione looks sceptical. “My brothers told me about you…You’re Nearly Headless Nick!”

The ghost opens its mouth irritably.

“Nearly Headless?” Seamus pipes before it can reply. “How can you be nearly headless?”

Ethel ducks her head down and determinedly does not look up when the ghost replies curtly “Like this.” And instead tucks into a bite of ham and cranberry sauce, trying not to laugh when several people choke in surprise.

“So,” Nearly Headless Nick says, after a pause and a little cough, “New Gryffindors!” He claps his hands together but since he’s a ghost it doesn’t make a sound. “I hope you’re going to help us win the house championship this year! We’ve never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have had the house cup for six years in a row!” He crows passionately, “The Bloody Baron’s becoming almost unbearable – he’s the Slytherin ghost.”

Ethel tunes the rest of the conversation out and polishes off her plate. She doesn’t get as much choice at home as there is spread on the table, but at home Mum knows how to make her favourites best, so she’s hard pressed to decide who wins – Hogwarts house elves or Ada Diggory.

There’s a bit of a lull in between dinner disappearing and dessert, so they end up going around in a circle introducing themselves, starting at Lavender since she suggests it.

It turns out that Lavender actually lives not to far from Harry’s guardians, who looks surprised that there are any magicals near Surrey at all. Ron tells them all about how horrid it is having to share the bathroom with five brothers and a little sister, whilst Ethel notices Harry looks at him wistfully. Most of them are English apart from Seamus who immediately says he’s “Irish, born and bred.” Which then starts Parvati on how her grandparents had to illegally portkey to Britain decades ago to elope, because her grandfather had been a wealthy lord and her grandma a healer’s apprentice.

Ethel has to think for a few moments before she opens her mouth. “I’m not that exciting,” she explains. It’s difficult to follow after the Patils’ amazing epic of how they crossed the oceans for love. “The Diggory’s have only been pureblood for two generations, because our grandparents were half-bloods.” She swallows. “But…mum’s family have been pureblood for ages, but they used to be hedgewizards so they never attended Hogwarts.” They didn’t have the magic to, or the money, she doesn’t say.

“Hedgewizards?” Sally-Anne tilts her head.

Ethel nods, “They don’t use,” she shrugs, “you know, regular magic. Mostly Divination stuff, but it’s all linked to nature.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Dean grins at her.

“Yeah,” Neville nods hesitantly, “I had no idea.”

The muggleborns are all fascinated by their history and even Harry looks wide-eyed at the sheer variety of backgrounds. Seamus, descended from a fierce Irish witch who works in the St Mungo’s equivalent in Ireland as a healer. Neville, of House Longbottom, ancient founders of the Wizengamot under Merlin’s guidance himself, which, when the blonde boy finally gets it out, makes Hermione Granger look like she wants to quiz him until he’s dizzy. Lavender’s parents own an up-and-coming apothecary in Hertfordshire where they do business with “Newt Scamander, himself!” and the quality is “much better than that rot in the Diagon, really.” Ronald Weasley tells them about the infamous Malfoy-Weasley feud, where a Weasley retaliating against a Malfoy for swindling goods led to the whole line being cursed with the inability to have daughters, the tale ending with a trailing, “And then, obviously there’s the war so, Dad still hates Mr Malfoy – he was a Death Eater, no matter what the papers say – “ he explains for the benefit of those that didn’t know. “Even though we’ve got …Ginny now.”

Ethel blinks, “So you don’t hate the Malfoy’s then?”

Ron shrugs, “Not met one yet, even if the one in our year seems like a ponce,” and then winced like it caused him physical pain. “…I guess we’ll wait and see?”

Huh, so they hadn’t met Malfoy on the train.

“He’s a bit snobby,” Harry says, deciding on a slice of treacle tart after a moment. “I met him when I was getting my robes.”

There’s a nice stretch of quiet, only interrupted by spoons hitting the bottom of bowls and scraping at ice cream and treats. Ethel hums, apple crumble and ice cream on her spoon, the tart taste of fruit exploding in her mouth but not before she catches Dean’s eye across the table as he helps himself to seconds. They share a bit of a grin. Even Neville seems a little more relaxed, as he eats his pudding, occasionally (and not really subtly at all, bless) checking Trevor’s box under the table.

It’s only once people are hitting the bottoms of the trays and crystal platters that the Headmaster rises from his seat again, with a few claps of his hands that are clearly audible despite the huge room. The tables quieten – even Gryffindor.

The man clears his throat, pushing the half-moon spectacles on his nose up a little. “Just a few more words, now that we are fed and watered – I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all students. As some of the older years would be wise to remember.”

If that isn’t pointed at the Weasley twins, then Ethel will eat her new black hat.

“Mr Filch has also asked me to remind you all that there should be no magic used in between classes in the hallways. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term – anyone interested in playing for the house teams should contact Madam Hooch or their respective Quidditch captains for more information.”

Anyone that’s trying out for Seeker of Gryffindor might as well just give up now, Ethel thinks, glancing at the distracted back of the Boy-Who-Lived.

“I would also like everyone to give a warm round of applause to congratulate Edward Eastchurch of Ravenclaw House as our new Head Boy – and Penny Haywood of Hufflepuff House, our new Head Girl!”

From the House of Badgers a pretty blonde rises, brushing curls out of her face with a good-natured smile as the girls around her cheer raucously. Ethel glances at her brother who looks – huh – looks like he might have a crush if the wide eyes and slight blush is anything to go by. She grins secretly and turns to catch a glance of the Head Boy, a tall but relatively well-built boy with glasses and a mop of dark hair before he sits back down again.

At the front of the Great Hall, Dumbledore continues: “And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone that does not wish to die a painful death.”

There is a twittering of nervous laughter which promptly trails off when Dumbledore doesn’t add a “just kidding!” to the end of the announcement.

Both Sally-Anne and Neville turn very similar shades of green.

“And now, before we’re all off to bed – let us sing the school song!” Dumbledore beames at them, and flicks his wand with a flourish. Several feet above his head, and indeed the whole teachers table, a golden ribbon spills across the air, twisting and threading itself to form words of the apparent Hogwarts’ School Song.

Ethel…doesn’t remember this much singing from the movies… She frowns, as everyone around her seems to take a breath. Has she changed something so that the Welcoming Feast has songs now?

“Everyone, pick their favourite tune – and off we go!”

Around her the hall erupts, but the Gryffindor table around them is the loudest surprising the slightly gobsmacked first years, as they bellow in different tunes with different rhythms. At a bit of a loss, Ethel joins in to mouth the words to Lavender’s tune of Twinkle twinkle even though it doesn’t quite work with the words. Seamus picks something clearly Irish and sings tunelessly at the top of his voice, bolstered by the other boys’ grins.

The song finishes at different times to applause, Dumbledore’s being the most enthusiastic.

“Ah, music! A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime.” His blue eyes twinkle as he surveys the room once more. “Off you trot!”

Ethel extracts herself from between the bench and the long table as others around her do the same, brushing the smooth fabric of her dark cloak so it doesn’t catch on the wood. Percy Weasley and a dark haired girl, sporting a similar badge and red tie, gather all the first years with a few words and then set off to lead them out the hall. Ethel sidles up next to Neville again, bumping his shoulder softly.

“Alright, Neville?” She says, when they pause halfway up a flight of stairs at the prefects’ behest to wait until the moving marble staircase settles in its new position.

Neville’s grip on the banister is a bit tight, but he relaxes enough to nod tersely. “A-al…I’m al…I’m okay.”

The first years are mostly walking in groups, Ethel notes. Seamus and Dean are in front of them, with the Irish boy pointing out the talking portraits to Dean as they go by. Lavender, Parvati and Sally-Anne are slightly further ahead, talking easily with open smiles on their faces. Ron and Harry have their heads bent together up at the front with Percy while Hermione seems to be peppering the female Prefect with questions at the rear of the group. She supposes, for all the changes that have occurred from what she remembers, that it might well take until the troll incident for the ‘Golden Trio’ to form.

Twice, they get lead through what seem to be secret entrances – one, a low hanging tapestry that makes her shiver as she walks through it; and the second, a doorway hidden by a sliding panel of books. There are too many steps to count and Ethel feels it right down to her aching feet and drooping eyes. She’s sure Neville feels the same if his yawns are anything to go by.

They halt in the middle of a corridor (she’s lost count of what floor they’re on at this point) and Ethel cranes her neck to see what the hold up is. She and Neville are near the back of the group so when the female Prefect sighs aggrievedly behind them, they both exchange glances.

“Peeves – show yourself!” Percy calls out loud, his voice echoing off the walls.

The answering dragged-out fart sound makes his face glow red and Ethel giggles along with everyone else.

“Do you want me to go get the Bloody Baron?” He points at the air in front of him where, oddly, a number of canes are drifting. It’s probably not as threatening as the Prefect hopes, since he also uses the finger to push up horn-rimmed glasses on his nose.

There’s a pop – like bubble-gum – and a silvery shape drifts upwards from the floor. A ghost, a squat man with tight curls in his hair and dark eyes and a mocking grin that bursts into laughter as it sits, cross-legged, floating in the middle of the canes in the corridor.

“Ooooh!” Peeves mouth drops into a round ‘o’ shape, eyes glittering with mischief. “Ickle firsties! What fun!”

It lets out another mad giggle and then swoops at them suddenly. Ethel ducks, tugging Neville down with her, and shivers at the breath of cold at her neck.

“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron will hear about this! I mean it!” Percy barks at the silvery apparition’s retreating form, but not before it can stick it’s tongue out at them cheekily. With that, the canes drop from the air, one missing Neville’s head by inches. The Prefects have them wait until they can hear rattling further down the corridor before they move again, it won’t do to meet it twice in one night after all.

The Fat Lady’s portrait is a welcome sight by the time they reach her. Ethel hides a sigh of relief, trying to shake out her sore feet a bit.

“Caput Draconis.” Percy says, “Step back, everyone,” and they do, just in time for the huge ornate frame to swing out from the wall and reveal the round entrance hidden behind it. They all hurry inside, Neville handing off Trevor’s box to her momentarily as he clambers in behind her, and then the entrance shuts behind them.

The female Prefect flicks her black hair over one shoulder with a grin. “Welcome to Gryffindor then, firsties!” She gestures widely to the large round room, full of squashy arm chairs and tables and an open chest of what appears to be games. The room is decorated with a more tapestries and portraits, some of which move and wave. One wall has a large fireplace where the hearth flickers merrily, flames licking and crackling at the logs within. At the far side of the room there are two openings, with the words “Boys” and “Girls” spelt over the door frames in gold.

“I’m Olivia Armitage,” The Prefect says as they gather around her in a rough semi-circle. “And this is – “

“Percy Weasley.” The boy in question interrupts with a pompous tone. “We are your fifth year Prefects.” And if Ethel hasn’t been capitalising it before, she certainly is now.

Armitage looks like she wanted to roll her eyes and is only resisting through sheer willpower. “Right,” She says instead, “meaning we’re the people you go to if you need help or have any questions. The Sixth years’ are responsible for the Second Years and the Seventh years’ for the Third.”

Percy nods. “Professor McGonagall is not only the Head of our House and Transfiguration teacher, but also the Deputy Headmistress of the school, she is a busy but efficient witch and so she has tasked us with looking after you all. There are no stupid questions – “

“There are – there are stupid questions – but all questions unless they’re super important can wait until the morning.” Armitage does a quick surveying glance over them all that feels distinctly like she's  copied it off McGonagall. “You all looked knackered.”

“Meet us here at seven forty-five tomorrow and we’ll take you down to the Great Hall.” Percy says, even though his tone seems to all but scream ‘ask-me-questions!’

“If you’re late you’ll have to find your own way down.” Armitage says lightly.

Ethel echoes Neville’s whispered “goodnight” as the boys file off after Percy to head to their dorms. Armitage leads the rest of them through the ‘Girls’ doorway and up a spiral staircase that she says, conspiratorially, “turns into a slide so boys can’t get up here” which makes everyone giggle, even Hermione. Must be the tiredness.

The fifth year leads them to a dark wooden door with a gold plaque on the front that simply reads ‘First’, and directs them inside.

“Find your trunks and get ready for bed.” She suggests, standing at the threshold but not entering the dormitory. “I’m down a few floors in the ‘Fifth’s’ dorm please don’t come and get me in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency.”

They all nod, Armitage gives them one last smile and a “See you in the morning!”, and the door shuts.

“Woah – look at these beds!” Lavender beams at them once the sounds of the Prefect’s footfalls fade. “How cool are these?”

The room is in a circular shape, like the Common Room but smaller, with five four-poster beds draped in heavy red velvet curtains and a matching throw, over white sheets. Between each bed is a tall window with more red curtains, ready to be pulled shut if need be, and a bedside table with a small pitcher and a candle.

Ethel finds her trunk without too much of an issue. The Diggory’s don’t have a coat of arms, no matter how much Dad thinks they should have, but her trunk does have the initials  _ E.D  _ monogrammed into the lid. The leather is a sensible black with metal bindings along its edges. She fishes out the key from her pocket and shoves it in the lock.

“Ooh, a Warmer!” Parvati grins behind her, sinking to her knees on the rug in the centre of the room and the round knee-height pot in the middle and then pouts. “It’s off right now.”

“A warmer?” Hermione asks, moving closer. “Like a radiator?”

“What’s that?” Parvati tosses over her shoulder as she retreats to her trunk.

“It’s fairly self-explanatory,” The muggleborn says, matter-of-factly. “It radiates heat – do you not have radiators here?”

Even knowing that the bushy-haired girl doesn’t mean any harm doesn’t stop Ethel from bristling at the tone. She squashes it down viciously and ducks her head to grab her toiletries with one hand.

“We’re not backward hicks you know,” Parvati arches her brow. “Warmer’s do that too. They’re connected to a main fireplace and can keep a room warm quite easily, even though there’s no actual fire inside it.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Hermione says after a pause.

Surprisingly, it’s Sally-Anne, the fair-haired girl from before that saves the conversation, emerging from the door that leads to the bathroom with a soft “It’s kind of strange to get used to – having no electricity.” The rest of them turn to look at her, “I mean –“ She blushes, “How am I supposed to dry my hair without a hairdryer? It’ll take forever if I dry it naturally!”

“Oh!” Lavender perks up, having finished changing. “If it’s like our bathroom at home there’s definitely a setting in the shower that produces hot air. I can’t use it though,” the girl gestures to the dark waves atop her head, only a few shades lighter than Ethel’s own. “Makes my hair poof up like mad!”

“Mine too,” Hermione adds, more tentatively this time.

The brunette giggles, “At least we’re frizzy haired together!”

Hermione blushes and nods. Ethel leaves her toiletries on her bed as she changes into her pyjamas. She’s brought three sets; a nightie, a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt and pair of long sleeves and flannel trousers. She picks the pink short-sleeves and the yellow satin shorts and shimmies into them as she listens in to the conversations around her. A part of her desperately wants to say something so that she can join the chatter around her too, but the words get stuck in her throat.

She brushes her teeth next to Hermione at the sinks, while Lavender and Parvati chat over the wooden wall of the loo cubicles, and tries not to flush at the feeling of the main character’s eyes on her. In the stalls, the girls are discussing their shared love of Celestina Warbeck as she spits white froth onto white porcelain and washes her face.

“It’s…erm…Ethel, right?” Hermione asks, as she reaches for the towel to dry her face.

Ethel smothers her cheeks in her yellow towel to stall for a moment before removing it to say back, “Yeah, um, Ethel Diggory. Hermione, yeah? It’s a pretty name.” She says lamely and hangs her damp towel on one of the hooks to the left of the mirrors.

Hermione brightens. “Thanks! It’s Shakespearean, actually, my parents were big fans.”

“Muggle playwright, right?” She says, reaching up to undo her tight braids and running her hands through her sore scalp.

Hermione wilts a little. “Yeah.”

They leave the bathroom and separate for bed. Ethel’s bed is to the left of the door and next to Lavender’s. On the other side of the door is Parvati’s, easily recognisable from the moving picture of her family she has immediately placed by her bed, and Sally-Anne’s next to her. Hermione’s bed is opposite the door, her open trunk revealing just how packed it is with books.

There’s a bit of shuffling as everyone clambers into bed and a few sleepy choruses of “Goodnight.” 

Ethel blows her candle out and draws the hangings around her bed shut. Almost instantly, the space goes dark. Below her the mattress is comfy and the sheets soft, the duvet is heavy on top of her, not enough to be suffocating or restricting but weighty enough that she doesn’t worry about waking up cold.

Perhaps now is the time to think about the Sorting.

Her fist clenches, nails biting into the meat of her thigh.  _ “So determined when you decided to avoid the Story, and then faltering every time. Flimsy excuses to hide your indecisiveness _ .” Sometimes she looks in the mirror and feels sick at what she sees there, at the pale skin and brown hair, at the slight nose and grey irises that glare back. Sometimes the  _ wrongness  _ is still there. She swallows, feeling nauseous again and turns in the bed to lie on her stomach.

She knows she’s  _ indecisive.  _ She wants Cedric to be alive and happy and healthy right to the end of his days, surrounded by all his grandbabies and teasing her with a grin. She doesn’t want to hear her Dad’s voice break, crying out for his son in despair, doesn’t want to know why she’d never even seen her Mum in the Story. She wants the family that have loved her so much to survive and thrive and be  _ happy _ .

But.

But, she doesn’t want to interfere. Ethel doesn’t know who she was before this, or what she was, but she’s certain whoever she had been probably wasn’t a warrior or some brave hero either. Ethel isn’t some hero and she doesn’t want to try and –  _ what? _ – manipulate events and people and the Story? It’s too much responsibility. She might remember more than her eleven years, but she still feels eleven.

Her original plan was to avoid as many on-screen characters as possible and stay out of sight and out of  mind to the Story until fourth year where she’d beg Cedric not to compete. Done, sorted. And then her brother would stay alive and, well, she never really thought of much beyond that. Perhaps get out of the country before it all goes bonkers?

She flops onto her back again and resists a sigh, wondering if the other girls are sleeping. It is pretty late. Perhaps, she can still do some of the plan? She’s literally never heard or seen Sally-Anne Perks in the Story so perhaps it’s not impossible to fade into obscurity, even in Gryffindor.

The Hat had said  _ “If you’re not smart enough, get smarter. If your goals are too lofty, work harder. If your loyalty is lacking, find something to feed it. If you’re not brave enough, find courage.”  _ Which is easy enough for a Hat to say, especially when it can compare her to the thousands of people who have worn it before her.

Ethel’s last thought, before she drifts off, is of whether she should just stay out of it, leave everything as it is, discard the Story entirely. Needless to say – it is not a very restful night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue and the song taken from JK Rowling.


End file.
